


The Company She Keeps

by mydogwatson



Series: PostcardTales III [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hudders rules, M/M, Violence committed on an innocent biscuit, oblivious men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 04:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9703115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: Mrs Hudson decides the time has come for action.  Or one Sherlock Holmes might end up in the boot of her car.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little later than usual, because we got a whole lot of snow. While trying to dig out my car, I fell and twisted my knee. And also lost my car key, which hopefully will turn up when the five feet of snow melts. 
> 
> So I was glad to have a bit of fluff to polish and post. Hope you like it.

It was most often in the late afternoon when John Watson would pay a visit to 221A. He was usually just coming in from a day at the clinic, so would still be in doctor mode, knocking diffidently at her door. When she opened it, he would smile, the expression somewhere between medical professional and caring neighbour. “Just checking that you are keeping well,” he would say cheerfully.

Or, if it had been a rainy, cold day, he would confirm that she was staying warm and dry. “I know the damp aggravates your hip,” he would say.

Martha Hudson would always say that she was fine, thank him for asking, and then mention that the kettle had just boiled and maybe he’d like to pop in for a cuppa? And maybe a biscuit?

He never said no.

Over the course of many such teatimes, his fierce and unspoken love for Sherlock Holmes became obvious to Martha. She had suspected, of course, since the day the good doctor first appeared. But what went on up in 221B was in many ways a mystery to her.

She understood that John was not a man comfortable with his emotions. Too much the soldier, no doubt.

But as they talked, sometimes with the rain dancing on the windows, the truth was revealed, slowly, painfully, drop by drop. The actual words were never said, of course; that was not John Watson’s way.

Occasionally she was tempted to give him a slap on the side of his head.

But she never did and after a little while, he would gulp the last of his tea, smile and tell her to take care, and then head up the stairs as if he were heading into battle.

Sherlock, on the other hand, rarely knocked. Instead, he would pounce on her when she came in from the shopping or from visiting Mrs Turner next door. He would raid her fridge, then perch on the table like a recalcitrant child instead of taking a chair the way a grown-up would. It was as if he feared that being an adult would make it all seem more important than he wanted it to be. Or perhaps than he could bear for it to be.

She would make tea, of course, and he would pile too much sugar into the cup and then at least half of the time, not even remember to drink it.  
He would talk about the latest case or the lack of any case. Or about whatever ghastly experiment he had on the go.

And finally he would talk about John.

Or at least about how irritating it was that John insisted on going to work at that dreadful clinic. Or having an occasional pint with Lestrade. Or going to dinner with some nurse or other.

Maybe it was the fact that she was out of her soothers and the chilly damp weather outside had aggravated her hip more than usual. Or maybe she was finally just tired of listening to Sherlock, the great git, who was supposed to be so smart and yet couldn’t see what was right in front of his face.

She glared at him as he rambled on about the jumper John was wearing today and how he had thrown out the mouldering spider eggs that Sherlock had carefully stored just behind the Branston Pickle. Martha considered her options. The most appealing of which was locking Sherlock in the boot of her car and depositing him at the doorway of the clinic where John worked, ordering the doctor to handle the situation before it made her head explode.

But Martha Hudson was a sensible woman. So, instead of resorting to the kind of extreme measures of the sort she preferred to consign to her past, she simply went into her bedroom, leaving Sherlock still nattering on, and called John’s surgery. The message she left for him was simple.

_Dr Watson, there is a crisis at home. Please come ASAP._

 

Martha went back to the kitchen and resumed pretending to listen to Sherlock, who was still talking. 

When she heard John come in, she stepped into the foyer.

John looked stressed, but still ready to face whatever was coming. “Where is he? Is there blood involved?”

Martha fixed him with the same look that had once tamed some of the most powerful drug barons in Miami. “John Watson, I am done with listening to two grown men pine and moan over each other in my kitchen and never once address the issue with one another. That bloody elephant in the room is being evicted. Today.” She opened the door to her flat and waved him inside. “Neither of you is leaving until you work out whatever the hell you need to work out between you.”

When he paused she pushed him into the flat and closed the door behind him.

Martha Hudson was by nature a curious woman. Mrs Turner called her nosey [and she would know nosiness when she saw it]. So she did not surprise herself much when she braved the damp in 221C and planted herself by the open vent.

At first, it was all silence.

John finally spoke. “Mrs Hudson says that we have been pining and moaning over each other.”

There was a huff in response. 

“I am willing to own up to that,” John said and she silently cheered him.

Somebody dragged a chair across the floor. 

“Sherlock?”

“I reject the word ‘pining.’”

“Well, since moaning is your default state, we’ll go with that if you like.”

“And how much pining have you done between dates with every nurse who crosses your path?” Sherlock probably wanted those words to sound scathing but Martha heard the hurt instead.

“You said you weren’t interested.”

“And you have ‘I’m not gay’ on constant streaming,” Sherlock snapped.

“You know,” said John thoughtfully, “she can’t really keep us in here if we want to leave.”

Martha held her breath, because that was very true.

“I’m so tired, John,” Sherlock said and he sound beaten down in a way he never really did.

After a moment, John said, “I’m tired, too.”

No one spoke for a time. The only sounds were too faint to identify.

“Was that all right?” John said finally.

“It was fine, John. Do it again.”

It was when she heard John giggle that Martha left C and went back to her flat. When she walked into the kitchen, Sherlock was still sitting on the table, but now John was standing between his legs and they were kissing.

“Actually, I eat at that table,” she said sharply. “I think it is time you went upstairs.”

With one sheepish grin and one attempt to look haughty, they scampered up to their flat.

 

It was several days later when John came for tea after work.

They covered the fact that yes, it was a cold day and that, indeed, her hip was an annoyance. John sat at the table and crumbled a biscuit. “Mrs Hudson, I wanted to thank you,” he said finally.

“Pish posh,” she replied.

“I don’t know if we would ever have…gotten to where we are now without your help.”

She sat down opposite him. “Fine, you’re welcome, then.” She passed him another biscuit to replace the one that was now just a pile of crumbs. “But, please, John, do not feel obliged to give me details. Sherlock was quite definitive this morning.”

John turned red. “He didn’t….”

Martha only smiled at him.

 

Later, she turned up the volume on Jeremy Kyle to drown out the noise from upstairs and made herself a nice cup of P.G.Tips.

**Author's Note:**

> Title From: The Company She Keeps by Mary McCarthy


End file.
